


Weird

by maple_clef



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Humor, Tumblr Prompt, urban exploring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maple_clef/pseuds/maple_clef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kumar isn't sure if he knows what passes for weird these days...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).



> ... who suggested: _Kumar goes urban exploring and finds something magically interesting_. Hope you enjoy it!

Ever since I found out about the Folly and got Peter Grant to ‘fess up about what he does, certain things have started to make a bit more sense to me.

There’s always been talk of weird stuff down in the tunnels – but knowing as I now do that there are different _sorts_ of weird is pretty useful, because it gives you a kind of benchmarking system to work with. Given that I’ve developed a reputation as the go-to-guy for weird within the BTP, from back before Peter’s wizard apprenticeship was even a glimmer in his boss’ eye, anything that can help me discriminate between your run-of-the-mill weird and what Belgravia’s DCI Seawoll refers to as “weird bollocks”… well, I’ll take it.

For example, there’s Fred. Fred has spent his entire life down in the tunnels of the Piccadilly Line. I mean, not like the Quiet People – his entire _working_ life. He’s a patrolman, one of the brave souls who haunt the tracks after the network goes dark, and check for faults and damage along the tunnels. It’s one of those jobs that most people just couldn’t do – but those who take to it, well - they’re hooked. Lifers, most of them. And all definitely as weird – in the common-or-garden sense – as they come.

You’d think that once Fred has finished for the day that would be it with the subterranean exploration – he’d be off home to catch up on sleep, see his wife and kids, and generally do whatever middle-aged family men do with their time. Don’t ask me – I’m not there yet; I have another decade and probably a few poor choices in front of me. Hers, not mine. Just saying; any woman who can put up with a geeky Indian dude who works for the BTP, and who thinks that potholing in dangerous remote locations is the perfect holiday – such a perfect being must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

_Anyway_ , my man Fred clearly does not get his fix of being in a dark, airless and cramped environment during his 9 to 5, because he regularly joins me for a bit of urban exploring when he’s clocked off. I told you he was weird. And on this particular early morning, while most people were still asleep – or having breakfast in bed with the Sunday supplement – we were exploring part of the London Bridge Sewer network. It’s a bit of a warren down there; lots of smaller side tunnels and offshoots from the main tunnel. One section actually goes underneath part of the CrossRail works, so they’re a bit jumpy about giving access permission. One of those times the job comes in handy.

As urbex goes, it’s fairly tame – as long as you’re not stupid enough to be down there shortly after heavy rainfall (ahem) the biggest risk is getting lost, to be honest. Fred and I both having a decent sense of orientation, we weren’t worried. I even let myself get distracted by looking at the different sorts of brickwork down there, which were many and varied. I decided to get my camera out to take some shots for Peter – for some reason, he gets excited about this stuff, I don’t know. It was while I was fiddling about with the camera’s waterproof housing (essential, but a real faff) that Fred tapped me on the shoulder and said:

‘Did you hear that?’

I hadn’t so I asked him what he meant.

‘Listen,’ he said. So I did.

It was singing. Very faint, but definitely there. Although I wasn’t sure where “there” was; we were _here_ , and there was definitely nobody else down here with us. Probably. I mean, even when I was stuck under Notting Hill with Agent Scully and Harry Potter, we could hear the Quiet People splashing or otherwise moving about. I looked at Fred and he looked back at me.

‘Fred,’ I said, ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Fred, surprising me. ‘I see them quite a bit down in the tunnels. One-unders, and the like, I suppose.’ He sounded very matter-of-fact.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well in that case, do you think this is a ghost?’

Fred seemed to be giving my question the consideration it deserved.

‘Nah.’

I asked him to elaborate.

‘Well,’ said Fred, ‘In my experience, your actual ghost – while non-corporeal – actually manifests as more or less human-shaped.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I frowned at Fred, but he seemed to be engrossed in listening to the singing. I wondered if I should start issuing a ghost sighting pro-forma to all the patrolmen from now on, and whether the few informal reports that made it to me were just the tip of a very large, spooky iceberg.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If not a ghost, then what is it? Do you think it’s coming from above somewhere?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fred. ‘Probably not from the surface. But I can tell you it’s singing _The Rat Catcher’s Daughter_.’

He was right, you know. The disembodied voice – and now I thought it was a bit clearer, or perhaps I’d tuned in to it better – was probably male, and singing an old Music Hall song. Now, _that_ is more than the normal sort of weird. Definitely in the realm of weird bollocks.

‘Is it just in this spot?’ I wondered aloud, and we decided to split up and work our way in opposite directions along the tunnel until we couldn’t hear it any more. For me, it cut out about ten metres along the sewer. I took out a bit of chalk and marked an X on the wall in the relevant spot, then made my way back towards Fred. He reported much the same in the other direction; a gradual fading out.

Back at “ground zero”, I reached out gingerly and placed my hand on the wall. I thought I felt a catch of something, but before I could work out what it was, it wasn’t there anymore. But the voice was – although it seemed to have stopped singing, and was now talking – as though reciting something – in what might have been Old English. I looked at Fred, half expecting him to start translating, but he just shrugged.

‘No ideas? Oh well. Shall we knock this on the head for now?’ I asked.

Fred said that he was getting hungry anyway, and agreed that he was done for today.

While Fred seemed to have some experience in matters ghostly, I thought I’d probably get a second opinion from my tame professional Ghostbuster, just in case. So before we left, I marked the wall with more chalk, and wedged a glowstick underneath a copper pipe attached to the sewer wall, for good measure. I was pretty sure I’d remember my way back, but I’m an engineer – we’re all a bit overly thorough like that.

Once we got topside, Fred bade me farewell. ‘See you at work, Jaget,’ he said. ‘I’m now off to take the youngest to a birthday party.’

For the first time that morning, Fred looked a little frightened. I didn’t blame him; his youngest was four. I’ve been to those sorts of birthday parties, and they definitely scare the hell out of me.

With Fred off, bound for death and glory (or just a room full of kids on a sugar rush working each other up into a frenzy of hyperactivity), I pulled out my phone and called Peter “Venkman” Grant, as he is in my contacts.

‘Jaget,’ he answered. He sounded like he’d just woken up. ‘What’s up mate. How’s it going?’

‘I think I’ve got something for you,’ I said, and told him about the phantom voice singing mid 19th century popular music in the sewers under the City of London.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s my day off. We had a bit of a late one yesterday. I’m not sure I want to spend the morning traipsing through sewers with you again – no offence.’

I wasn’t offended, but I was annoyed. I was here, I had my gear on, and I had other plans for next weekend.

So I told him about the bricks.

‘Oh,’ said Peter. ‘Well I suppose I’m not really doing anything. I’ll just go and tell Nightingale where I’m off to. See you within the hour.’

He arrived in 20 minutes.

I take back everything I said about Fred. When there’s a guy like Peter at large, who is learning magic and deals with the supernatural for a living – but who won’t get out of bed for anything less than the opportunity to inspect ancient brickwork… Well. That’s the sort of weird _no-one_ can compete with.

But he bought me a pub lunch afterwards, so we’re cool. And I did get to meet the probably-ghost of the River Walbrook.

You know, I may have to reconsider my whole approach to benchmarking. Looks like weird is pretty much my life from hereon in.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about urban exploration, so I had a bit of fun doing a bit of a reading around for this. The location and detail of the London Bridge Sewer system is taken from a report on the "28 Days Later" urban exploring website, which has lots of cool photos (and mentions the brickwork!) [and can be viewed here](http://www.28dayslater.co.uk/forums/showthread.php/91900-London-Bridge-Sewer-2014).


End file.
